Falling Light
by androidilenya
Summary: Thangorodrim and the night before the Nirnaeth. (Two loosely connected drabbles, rule 63'd Maedhros/Fingon).
1. you are the light that blinds me

Fingon's eyes were blue like the sky after first dawn Maedhros ever saw, hanging in torment from a black mountain, and when the fire fell away from the horizon and the sky was brilliant and cloudless, she would have cried if she had had anything left in her to give to the merciless light. It was the same shade, and everything was tinted gold like Fingon's braids (only she had still been Findekániel, then, though she was no longer Maitimë and never wished to be again—Fingon would break that rule in the end, but she was the only one Maedhros allowed to, because if anyone deserved to it was her).

The same shade, and every dawn after that reminded her of the way Laurelin had glinted off Findekániel's braids, and every moonrise of the way Teleperion made her skin shine as they moved together, dark shadows wrapped together in the shadows under the silver trees, and she ___missed_that, missed Findekániel and her laughing eyes and soft words.

There was no memory Morgoth had left untouched, and even her love's face terrified her now, because nothing was real anymore, and had not been for a long time. There was only the pain, and the fire waiting for her every morning.

___We were sworn to the Everlasting Darkness, s_he thought distantly, not sure what the words meant. And on the heels of that, a vaguely concerned idea—___I do not remember for what we swore._

She wondered if she was even now trapped in the Darkness she had feared so much.

(But no, it could not be—not when her lover's eyes graced the sky above, the gold of her braids beating down mercilessly, blistering Maedhros' skin and dazzling her eyes until the world swam in red and black. Not when there was so much light, painful and inescapable.)

___And this does not end, does it? I cannot remember a beginning, so there will never be an end—here, in the light, with nothing else, not even the one I love—_

She thought she remembered her love's name, but did not dare try to bring it from the depths of her mind—to try would be to know for certain if she had lost it forever, and she would rather pretend for awhile longer.


	2. day's end

"This time, Maitimë, ___this _time we'll succeed, and Morgoth will fall before our combined might, and ___no one_ will be able to contest our right to rule a free land in peace–"

Maedhros smiled, tangling her fingers in Fingon's hair. The gold-threaded braids were undone, spilling over her cousin's back, glinting in the firelight. There was a reckless, brilliant light in Fingon's eyes, and her lips tasted of summer-wine, shining star-bright.

"We'll rule together," her cousin continued, laughter dancing at the edge of her voice, and she picked up the crown from the table she had set it aside on, twirled it on her fingers: "This matters not, Maitimë, never has. You and I, we can rule Beleriand—split it down the middle, if you want, and take back every land Morgoth ever defiled, make it ___clean_ again, make it a place we can ___live_."

___And we will live together, and it will be as it was before—before the burning of the ships, before the Ice, back when it was you and I in an unstained land under a golden sky… is that it, Finnë, is that what you want? _

And she knew as well as anyone that no one could erase the past, that some wounds never healed, but she let Fingon pull her closer all the same, fingers ghosting over the stump of her right wrist, because her cousin had always saved her, and this time they would save the land together, and it would be a tale worthy of Maglor's harp, a tale of triumph and glory instead of the fall of a brilliant people into shadow.

Fingon placed the crown on Maedhros' head, smiling as though to say ___this is where it belongs, on the head of my Queen. _Maedhros drew her closer, crushed her to her.

"What do you think the people will name this battle, when it is over?" she whispered into Fingon's hair, inhaling the scent that was undeniably ___her_, the scent that reminded her of a tryst under a silver tree, stolen kisses that they could barely initiate without laughing for the sheer joy of being together, and free. "We have had a glorious battle, already, have we not? Seems we shall need to search for more fitting names, once we have crushed Morgoth's forces—"

Fingon pressed her lips to the fluttering pulse in Maedhros' neck, and she stiffened against her, fingers tightening in her hair. "We shall have no need for a name, for it shall be the ___last_ battle, and there will be no need for more once the Enemy is gone." She spoke the words with shining conviction, as though the battle were already won, Thangorodrim already so much ash on the wind, and Maedhros could ___see_ the victory when she closed her eyes, Fingon's armor shining in the sunset and the Silmarils brilliant under the light of the sun, freed from Morgoth's crown.

"The last battle," she repeated, and the words felt right in her mouth—and what would it be like, to no longer have to fight, to rule a land that was peaceful and safe?

"And we will win it together," Fingon added, tilting her head up, and Maedhros kissed her, thinking, ___together—and then, after that, forever with you._

.

(And when the banners foundered in the midst of Morgoth's army, going down in flame and blood, she closed her eyes and tried to regain that victory that had been so close she could ___see_ it—but she could not imagine a field of triumph without Fingon by her side, had never been able to.)


End file.
